


Golden Lionheart

by author_morgan



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Because they deserve to, Everyone lives, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:01:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25141324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/author_morgan/pseuds/author_morgan
Summary: As it turns out, Fíli is your lionheart.
Relationships: Fíli (Tolkien)/Reader, Fíli/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 64





	Golden Lionheart

THORIN OAKENSHIELD HAD not fancied the idea of another member in the company after Gandalf forced the hobbit upon them as a burglar, especially one with even a hint of elven blood. He liked the exchanged looks between you and his eldest nephew even less. The wizard vouched for you and Balin quickly drafted up an additional contract before leaving Rivendell —not as in-depth as the one given to Bilbo Baggins but lengthy, nonetheless. You signed without a second thought. Besides Thorin and Dwalin, the company was affable —especially Fíli and Kíli. The two brothers had taken to you like hobbits to good pipe-weed and a warm hearth. Unsurprisingly, you had taken to them quickly too.

Four days of little rest since the Eagles carried the company to the Carrock was beginning to take its toll. Now several days ahead of Azog and his orc pack, Thorin stops along the banks of the mighty Anduin and calls for a night’s rest before continuing with the quest. Bombur and Bifur prepare a deer for the spit as the sun sinks below the tree line in the west.

You lean against Fíli as Óin tends the wound on your left forearm —a warg bite. The tonic the old healer pours of the punctures stings and burns, unwittingly you grip onto Fíli’s thigh. He takes your hand though, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. Óin spreads a thick paste of wildflowers and herbs over your arm and rewraps it with a strip of dry linen. It would still be some time before you could wield both your blades concurrently.

Kíli settles next to the both of you, passing over a heavy skin of water. Fat sizzles in the flames as it renders from the deer, the scent sets everyone’s bellies off rumbling with hunger. Fíli shifts behind you, distracting himself by fiddling with your hair. His fingers are deft and careful as he works free a few of the knots. It’s only when he starts a braid that the company takes notice.

“Wait,” you start quietly, looking over your shoulder, “are you braiding my hair?” You had heard rumors of the significance of braiding among dwarven culture, most notably that it was a sign of courtship. Fíli only hums, continuing without a care in the world.

* * *

THE DAMP COLD of Laketown sinks into your bones, even in the warmth of the Lake Master’s residence. You sit up, glancing around at the snoring dwarves around you —they are unaffected by the chill in the air and by Bombur’s particularly loud snores. The only other person awake is Bilbo —the hobbit offers an apologetic smile. He knows the past weeks have been trying and a dragon still lies between the company and Erebor. 

It is no coincidence Fili is who is laying closest to you. You and the golden-haired dwarf had become incredibly close throughout the quest. In the Elvenking’s dungeon he had redone the braid in your hair, plaiting one behind your ear —this time he secured it in place with one of his wrought beads. A detail that had not gone unnoticed by his brother or uncle. A faint rush of heat rises to your cheeks as you recall how it felt to have his lips pressed against yours —the two braids of his mustache tickling your jaw.

You shift and the floorboard beneath you _creaks_. Fíli stirs awake just in time to see you shiver. “I’ll keep you warm,” he offers, voice a hoarse whisper —lips twisting into a playful smile. Pushing your excuse of bedroll closer to his, you lay back down and let Fíli wrap his arms around you, pressing your face into his warm chest. Soon, you entangle your legs with his desperate to feel his warmth and commit this moment to memory before the sun rises and you depart for the mountain. His lips brush against your temple and the strong, steady beat of his heart is a sweet lullaby.

* * *

WHEN THE BATTLE ends, you stand among scores of dead—orcs, men, elves, and dwarves from the Iron Hills– in the streets of Dale. Gandalf finds you and urges you to follow him to Ravenhill, where Thorin had led Fíli and Kíli with Dwalin to face Azog. You race ahead of the wizard, seeing Thorin standing over the corpse of the orc leader with Fíli and Kíli next to him. All three barely able to stand upright, with Dwalin still dispatching the straggling orcs.

Fíli stumbles to you with a lopsided smile. You skim his bloodied face —eyes tracing a cut on his forehead— for a moment before wrapping him tightly in your arms. “I’m not letting you go,” you breathe against his neck —he can feel the dampness of tears mixing with the drying blood. His arms tighten around you, he’s not going to let you go either. Over Fíli’s shoulder, you can see Thorin Oakenshield smiling, even as Kíli and Tauriel embrace on the frozen river.

By the day’s end, the infirmary is a mess of wounded men, elves, and dwarves. The woman and older children of Laketown scramble to collect clean water and fresh rags while the elves prepare poultices with stores of dried herbs and spices. In a small antechamber off the main infirmary, the Sons of Durin are surrounded by concerned friends. Save Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli the company had come away unscathed —only small scratches and bruises.

You sit next to Fíli, beginning to take in the nasty bruise on his ribs and the short, deep cuts on his sides where his mail coat had torn. He frowns —the beads in his mustache swaying as his lips twitch— noticing a patch of stained wool at the base of your neck. “You’re bleeding,” Fíli says, barely touching the slim cut but it had scabbed over before the battle ended.

“Very astute, my lion,” you remark, laughing softly while wringing out a cloth to wipe the blood from his side. Fíli wraps an arm around your waist —ignoring the jolt of pain in his side— drawing you closer. You know you should object, his wounds still need to be dressed, but his embrace is warm, and his dark blue eyes are clear —shining with unspoken adoration and love.

Fíli leans forward —just a little— and presses his lips against yours. You melt against him, fingers dropping the damp rag and slipping back into his dirtied golden hair. His kiss is slow and confident now that the battle is hard-won. He cradles the back of your head and when Fíli pulls back, he kisses your temple. You smile, knowing that now you are _home_.


End file.
